


Promises of Winter

by Lunarium



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: M/M, Winter Solstice
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-19
Updated: 2015-12-19
Packaged: 2018-05-07 18:21:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,060
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5466488
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lunarium/pseuds/Lunarium
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An attack on a hunting party brings back unsettling news to two young lovers.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Promises of Winter

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Talullah](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Talullah/gifts).



> Written with love for Talullah! It was such a joy to explore Mablung's wildly vast family tree! :) 
> 
> Many thanks to my beta (to be revealed!)

The warmth, inviting and comforting as it was, was turning uncomfortable, stifling, coupled with pressure as something heavy rested against his chest. 

“Fascinating! He still sleeps as though dead!”

“He has barely gotten much chance to sleep,” came another voice, velvety with a note of mischief, so intimately familiar to him. 

“Perhaps we should leave him,” said another. 

“And miss this chance?” came a fourth, high-pitched with mirth, her laughter like cold rocks pounding against his skull. “He _never_ oversleeps!”

“I too would be interested in seeing his face,” said a fifth. 

“And - oh! Look at all of these bottles!” 

“We…had a bit of fun the night before.” 

“We can clearly see that.” 

“Though it appears you may have killed our brother in the process.”

“And to think we had trusted you with him. Let me examine him!” 

“Get off!” 

The weight over him grew heavier just as the pounding increased in his head, and the shouting and laughter from the elves didn’t help matters.

“Moredhel! We require your fingers of ice! Tickle his sides!” 

“ _Enough!_ ” 

Mablung groaned out the word in a snarl, silencing and stilling the intruders in his room. Opening his eyes, he gazed up at Beleg smiling guiltily at him. He was the one lying directly on top of Mablung’s body, and on each side of him were the sisters and brothers of Mablung, or what had remained of them after their travels from Cuiviénen, their thick black hair framing their fair brown faces as they mimicked Beleg’s sheepish look. 

“What are you doing?” Mablung demanded coldly, shoving them all off as he sat up roughly. His head spun, and he cursed under his breath, gripping his head. It had seemed such a good idea at the time, a few (or a dozen, by the look of things) drinks between himself and Beleg to celebrate the first snowfall. And it had been a heavy snowfall, the cold driving them to huddle as close as they could against one another under the layers of fur and blankets. 

“We came because we were worried about you,” Beleg said affectionately, settling beside him rather too comfortably in front of Mablung’s family, completely unabashed about what they had done atop this very bed just hours before. 

“It is not like you to sleep later than Beleg,” Mormeril pointed out. 

“I can usually hear him yelling at you for waking him too early,” Môriol added, who alone of her siblings had not altered her name to match that of the shifts in their king’s tongue. 

“I hope we were not needed anywhere?” Mablung asked. 

“Young and enthused Tirithon was ever glad to take your post guarding the gate of the city despite it being his turn to sit by his mother’s side,” Mennith informed him coolly, raising an eyebrow at him. 

Mablung winced. Tirithon’s mother had become stricken with illness two months back, and her children had taken turns remaining beside her along with a healer Queen Melian had placed in charge of her care. “I will speak to him and apologize, and take watch.” 

“After you’ve put on more proper garments, I do hope,” Míriedir said in a deadpan voice as Maethor tried to keep his face impassive behind him, and that was when Mablung felt the chilly draft. 

Beleg chuckled mischievously behind Mablung, who realized his lover was enjoying the view of his nakedness from the back. He cast out Beleg and his siblings, all six of them, who were half laughing and half screaming, out of the apartment, his commanding voice scattering them in all directions of the hall. He hurriedly dressed, fighting the rising pounding in his head, then slipped out when he was looking more dignified, vowing to himself that should Beleg come up with any other ideas, he would first wait for him to drink the entire dozen flasks of mead before he proceeds. Seeing the other man able to bounce back so readily after their little wild night was both a blow to his own ego and a little disheartening. 

He had not expected to find anyone still waiting outside the apartment, but there Moredhel stood, alone of his siblings. He wrapped the shawl their mother had made for him tighter about himself, shivering slightly against the cold. Undoubtedly he had been waiting patiently, keeping whatever words he had to say silent until they had a chance to be alone. 

Though the youngest, Moredhel seemed the eldest among them, having grown up far too quickly in the harsh journey west. His gaze was the most sullen Mablung had ever beheld among the younger elves, haunted as he regarded Mablung, searching for any semblance of hope in his older brother. 

Normally any meeting with Moredhel meant an opportunity for Mablung to make his brother’s life as much of a living hell as possible. It was his duty, just as how his siblings mocked and teased him earlier this morning, but something in his eyes softened his heart immediately. 

“Something is bringing pain into your heart,” he said. 

“What do you think of this….cave?” Moredhel asked, waving one arm weakly about his surroundings.

The cave of Doriath, found in the Forest of Region. The sheer size of it from the outside promised that it ran far deeper than what was open to them, but they had little time yet to burrow further into the cave. They used what they could to section off the cave into small houses, or apartments, working around cave wall or using animal hide or long tapestries if there were no walls to divide one house from the next. Mablung didn’t want to think how easy to was for his neighbors to hear him and Beleg. 

_As if we haven’t had to suffer through their own affairs_ , he thought grimly. 

“It’s certainly not as freeing as living out with the heavens as our roof, but it has given us protection against Belegûr’s evil,” Mablung said. 

“Has it really protected us?” Moredhel asked. “I feel less sure of my safety than I ever have. I know not these forests. And our family…they have scattered and some have died. 

“I saw Mírorn taken away by a moving shadow. It was during our accursed journey here. He had been beside me but a moment before, and suddenly he was gone, slipped into darkness. I searched for him in the dark and could not reach him, but I…I was terrified, brother. I could nearly feel the Dark One’s eyes upon me, and I fled in terror. Fear won over my love for my brother. 

“It was worse with Mormadron.” 

The name sent a cold shiver up Mablung’s spine. 

“Speak not that name,” Mablung said in a tight voice. He placed a hand on Moredhel’s shoulder, hoping his smile would offer him comfort, but he saw the haunted look in them. 

“We have lost far too many coming here,” Moredhel continued. “Mormadron and Mírorn. And we know nothing of how Medliben, Mýleth, Mithmindon, and Midhien still fare by the lake of our birth. The orcs might have overpowered that region now that we’ve divided into smaller groups.” 

He fell silent, and Mablung had to smile sadly, understanding well his brother’s need to name their siblings, each of them. Where there were once sixteen who resided in Cuiviénen, now only seven remained who had followed Elwë, now Elu Thingol, into Doriath. 

“Morchanar led a people up north,” Mablung said, “and Morcaenith and Mistien went with him. We remain strong wherever we settle, and though none of us have traveled far West beyond the Sea, now we have family in the east and in the north. Think not that perhaps Mírorn escaped south and would seek a stronghold with others there?” 

Moredhel took in Mablung’s encouraging smile and sighed. “I wish it to be true. But…we have both seen Mormadron’s body, brother. What was left of it. I cannot bear to think of Mírorn in the same manner.” 

Mablung squeezed his eyes shut. He did not need another reminder of what was done to Mormadron. 

“Moredhel, sweet brother…you were too young to know…Mormadron was not the first we’ve lost. While we lived in Cuiviénen, there had been other deaths, brothers and sisters you had never met and which our parents still have pain to speak of.” 

Moredhel’s eyes widened. “I…have never heard of them…”

Mablung nodded. He knew Mormeril, Mírorn, and Moredhel were a unit, an inseparable group, united by virtue of being the youngest three of the family. But where Moredhel stood between them there once was a sister, and where Môriol stood making her bread for the travelers, she too was joined by a brother and sister, twins, who worked with her. And Mablung too regretted all resentment he ever held for the brother who used to trail behind him and Beleg, never understanding they needed their own time alone. 

“That is why the older generations have such vast families,” Mablung explained. “Being an only child like Beleg was the uncommon thing. Elmo isn’t the only love-fool among the elves, though perhaps he remains so for marrying so many of them. We’ve lost a number of our family, but we thought the remedy for it was to have more. But it does not take away the pain of those who had been lost.” 

Moredhel cocked one eyebrow. “Was I born to replace someone?” 

Mablung chuckled. “No. Our parents wanted to have another child. And I daresay Mírorn was better off once you began to show him reason. His mind was far too high with the stars before you began speaking with him.” 

And Moredhel benefitted from Mírorn too, Mablung added in his mind but did not voice, for Mírorn was always the more hopeful of the two, seeing light where his brother struggled to find it. 

“When the weather grows warmer and the orc raids have subsided, we will go out searching for Mírorn again,” Mablung promised. “And you will find him a king among a people, well-protected and well-respected, who even Belegûr even trembles to hear his name, and you will find envy in your heart along with relief upon your reunion.” 

Moredhel’s grim face broke into something akin a laugh, but it was beautiful, reflected in the candles that floated about, enchanted by their lady’s magic. Reaching out, Mablung ruffled his youngest brother’s hair. 

“For now, put your focus on the preparation for this feast. I’m certain Mormeril is waiting for you right now and hoping you can deliver her out of the tyranny that is Môriol and Míriedir. Think of the new life, new world, that we are entering. Have you not said you’ve met a new speaker recently? What had they said they were? _Khazad_? Think of them, those new friends of yours. And think of the upcoming holiday. Let it be a light in the darkness threatening to darken your mind.” 

Moredhel smiled bitterly. “I fear my heart and mind have already become unforgivably dark. I _do_ love him very much, my Mírorn.” And he left the hall, his thin frame a ghostly reminder to Mablung of just how few of them were left. 

The light of the candles reflected off the glittering gems gleaming on the surface of the cave walls, lighting Mablung’s path in an array of tiny colors and light. From a distance he could see Beleg and Tirithon several paces away from the gates of the cave, their voices animated and full of adrenaline, fight pumping in their veins. Light reflected tiny specks of blood outside and in, the trail making for the healer’s wards. 

His chest constricting, Mablung rushed to their side, drawing out his sword. 

“How many?” 

Beleg’s arrow sang across the wintery night sky, piercing an orc right through the skull. “Each attack brings more of them!” 

“They’ve followed our hunting party back home!” one of the Sindar said, running past them, one hand clasped against an injury on his arm. 

“Get in! All of you!” Mablung cried out, his heart beating and hoping his father Morwë and Beleg’s father Ivrolach were well, as they had been part of the hunting group that day. They along with Tirithon fought off the orcs as they swarmed the gates, earning themselves a quick victory that did not require them to call for more aid. 

An elf landed roughly near them, her sword plunged deep into the final orc just as more of the hunting party ran inside, terrified but otherwise alive and safe. But when Maethrowen of the Nandor stood, Mablung could smell the blood dripping off her, her leg badly mangled in the fight. 

“Help,” she begged, shaking from the pain. Working swiftly, his fingers flying as though enchanted by an inner spell, Mablung bandaged up her leg, stopping the bleeding just long enough for him and Beleg to each position themselves to one side of her and hoist her up. 

“We had found a herd of deer grazing at a glade,” she explained as they brought her in and led her towards the infirmary. “Snow had not covered all of the region yet, and the deer were feeding what little they could before they went elsewhere. There were enough to feed everyone for the holiday feast, and our sole attention was on them such that we knew not we too were watched.” 

“Were there any causalities?” 

“Not at the glade, no,” Maethrowen said. “I cannot be certain if any were brought down during the chase. It was all so chaotic.” 

“We understand,” Mablung said. “For now, you must rest.” 

They helped her onto one of the beds, taking care in resting her injured leg. 

“I would like to request Aravilui to examine me, if that would be all right with you,” Maethrowen said to Nithrellas, who gave her an amused look before calling for the other healer. 

Aravilui popped her head behind a corner, having only just finished with another patient before noting Maethrowen’s presence. 

“My lady! My leg is injured, and I am in so much agony,” Maethrowen said in a melodic tone, then cried out with genuine pain when Aravilui gripped about her leg, testing the bones. 

“You were saying, Lady Maethrowen?” Aravilui said, though she was smiling slyly to herself. 

Mablung and Beleg glanced at one another and smirked, but said nothing. Nithrellas and Aravilui wanted another account of the attack, which Maethrowen was only too glad to do, putting on a special spin just to make herself shine more in Aravilui’s eyes, amusing Mablung all the more. Periodically more of the company arrived, and Mablung and Beleg sat still, waiting for either’s father to arrived. 

At last, Ruinir stepped inside. 

“Everyone is accounted for,” he notified Nithrellas. “All but two have returned. The others…well…” 

“Do we know of the two missing?” 

“Morwë and Ivrolach.” 

Maethrowen’s eyes widened as she glanced towards Mablung and Beleg. Ruinir traced her gaze and paled, bowing to the two guards. 

“I am so sorry,” he mumbled. 

All amusement and mirth were lost on the two men. Beleg was frozen on the spot, but Mablung drew to his feet, rounding on Maethrowen. 

“Did you know this?” 

“No!” 

“Are you lying to me?” 

“No, Mablung! I spoke to you in truth! Things got too chaotic too fast - we all ran here! If any fell, I had no witness to it!” 

“She is speaking the truth,” Ruinir said in a small voice, recoiling at Mablung’s great height. “I was there. Morwë and Ivrolach told the hunters with them to just make for the safety of the cave. They stayed behind to fight the orcs.” 

“They might still be alive,” Beleg said as calmly as he could. “Not returning does not have to mean that they had died.” 

_But we are left wondering, as we had with Mírorn_ , Mablung thought. “Mention none of this to my family, especially not to Moredhel.” 

“I cannot promise that,” Ruinir said truthfully. “News spreads fast, and they would have learned of the attacks by now. But I will tell them what I have told you, and that they may still be out.” 

Mablung nodded in approval, then when Ruinir was out, he turned to Beleg. “We will wait for just one day, and then we will search.”

*

The search had turned unsuccessful, as had multiple other attempts. The winter storms nearly buried them into the cave, leaving them to peer out of the cave’s door with forlorn, wondering in what direction in the never-ending white sheet their fathers hid. 

Neither slept much, nor took another sip of mead, offering to guard the gates as often as their bodies would allow them to remain awake. A couple more hunting parties had gone out in the couple weeks leading to the holiday feast, returning with minimal problems beyond contesting against the harsh weather or returning empty-handed, though plenty of meats too had been brought. 

Mablung’s family worked as diligently as ever in helping to prepare, beautifying the halls of the cave and preparing the meats to be cooked for the feast. Queen Melian had used her enchantments to bring about more beauty into the cave, lighting it with small stars of many shapes and colors, some which hummed as they walked past it, others which flickered or jingled as though coming to life upon being seen by an elf. It would have all brought cheer in Mablung and his family’s heart, but each of them held the silent fear that they would not see Morwë again. 

Celeblas, having no one else in her family beside Beleg and Ivrolach, huddled with the house of Morwë, and often she and Morispiní spoke amongst themselves as they worked, their faces sullen but not breaking. 

The night of the feast came, and Mablung and Beleg found themselves at the gate, looking out over the hill of snow that half-blocked the entrance. They had not bothered shoveling it out, thinking it a barrier should any orc get a whiff of the sweet meats and the dishes being served in the grand hall. 

The sky was calm, the only twinkling light coming from the stars, their light reflected off the soft snow. Cold clouds formed in front of their noses and mouth as they breathed in the crisp, chilly air, but otherwise neither spoke for the longest while, counting how many days had passed since their fathers went missing. 

And then Beleg reached for Mablung’s hand. As he had them tucked under a thick wooly coat, Beleg’s hands were warm, comforting, around Mablung’s own. 

“Our anniversary had passed without our knowing,” he said. 

Mablung returned the faint smile. “Winter time. I remember.” 

Their fathers and mothers warred passionately over the date of their sons’ wedding. They themselves had wedded their wives while the world was still very young, before snow and rain, of the tree leaves turning brown and falling only to reemerge months later…before a sense of passing seasons, became part of their lives. Their generation had become obsessed with predicting the success and quality of each marriage based on the season in which the couple had wed. Summer weddings yielded insufferable couples, autumn far too grim as too many things ended, though Morispiní loved it for its brief display of colors under the stars, and spring far too brief and spontaneous of a love. But the winters, both had claimed meant an everlasting love, for winters were long and enduring and patient, the qualities they perceived as desirable in a couple. And for that, Morwë and Ivrolach pushed Mablung and Beleg to wed on a cold night in hopes of benefiting from the promises of winter. 

It was merely the talk of elves excited to find and associate a deeper meaning to the changing of seasons, and their two sons had suffered for it. They were wrapped with triple layers of animal hides and fur to stop themselves from shivering, and the lake had frozen over when they tried to perform one of the final steps of the ritual. The bird they were given had been utterly uncooperative, unwilling to leave the comfort of their hands to deliver the news of their union to _Oijâ Bálâ_ , but when the lights of the stars twinkled bright after the bird flew past, both could not deny the thrill each felt in his heart. 

“You better have accepted,” Mablung said through clattered teeth, surprising them both. And laughing, they kissed atop the frozen lake. 

“At the least we cannot deny the cold had made our desires all the greater,” Beleg teased, smiling up teasingly at Mablung, who smiled lightly at the memory of their shared bane of the winter wedding. “Though pity we cannot do our yearly dance.” 

“It would not be the same, without them,” Mablung said. They huddled closer together, reliving their memories in whispers, and thus were not aware when two of Melian’s highest guards approached them from the back. They were both very tall women, being twin sisters, and very old, perhaps one of the first generation of elf children to be born, and their commanding voices rang like bells. 

“Your shifts have ended,” Losnel said. “We will take over for the rest of the feast.” 

“Would you not be missed at the grand hall?” Mablung asked. 

“Queen Melian has requested we watch the gates,” Helegnel her sister replied. “We both agree the two of you are more needed with family at this time.” 

Mablung and Beleg thanked them and went inside, and the two sisters took place by the gates, their tall frames casting a long shadow into the cave.

When the two men were well out of sight, they turned and nodded to Morispiní, who bowed politely to them both. 

“Thank you for allowing me this chance,” she said. “Celeblas and I came to the decision together after she had her dream. I believe I know where to find my husband and hers.”

*

The grand hall of King Elu Thingol and Queen Melian would come to be well known for its grandeur and beauty in the years following this night, but even now, despite its relative bareness, it was a beautiful sight. Candles and starlights of jewel tones greeted them, as did the inviting scents of the meals and the music played by the minstrels, led by Daeron whose voice hit them with poignant emotion the moment they heard him. At the far table, seated were King Elu in robes of emerald green, the Queen Melian in a long ruby dress, and their daughter Lúthien, who wore an elegant dress of sapphire and a simple diadem made of a golden branch. 

They passed Maethrowen who was happily talking with Nithrellas and Aravilui, the latter hanging on to her every word. Tirithon waved to them from his table; they could see his mother, though still looking pale, was recovering and able to spend the holiday with her family. 

They found Celeblas and Mablung’s siblings, and some of his sibling’s spouses and their children, who were all seated together at a table. They embraced Mablung and Beleg, offering them plates of food, pretending the merriment in their smiles and voices were genuine. 

“Where is mother?” Mablung asked Mormeril. 

“At her apartment,” Mormeril replied. “She said she was working on a shawl for someone but she didn’t have time to finish what with all of the preparations, but she didn’t want to leave it unfinished before the completion of the feast.” 

Mablung accepted the explanation, but as the time drawled on, he was finding her absence just as jarring as his father and Ivrolach’s. He and Beleg ate little, and he especially opted more towards hot tea over stew or meat. The music and the soft singing with the gentle lights kept his fear at bay, even at times fooling him into feelings of hope before the fear clouded over. 

“Shouldn’t you two dance?” Moredhel asked, breaking their reverie. He motioned to the couples who had eaten their fill and danced slowly to Daeron’s beautiful music. “It’s tradition. Your parents already watched you dance at the midwinter festival.” 

Celeblas smiled warmly at him just as Mablung’s nieces and nephews eagerly nodded their approval. She turned towards her son. “We did…I do. I would like to watch you again, if you are not too tired? Perhaps it will make you feel better?” 

Something in her gaze convinced Beleg, who turned to Mablung and nodded. Holding one another’s hands, they slowly got up and took a few steps, getting into position for their dance. 

“It…does not feel right,” Mablung confessed, his heart too heavy with grief. 

“For your sibling’s children, then?” Beleg offered. 

They glided through the first few steps, trying to lose themselves into the dance to please the younger elves, catching one another’s gaze in a manner to offer one another strength for the next step. 

They had just performed a perfect turn, Mablung breaking into a small smile, momentarily lost in Beleg’s handsomeness as the light shone warmly on his silvery hair, when he looked up and froze. Beleg crashed into him, but Mablung stood stock still, gripping Beleg and breaking his fall. He spun around and too drew silent. 

Past the double doors of the grand hall walked Morwë and Ivrolach, with Morispiní, smiling smugly, close behind. They appeared wholly alive, well-fed and alert and perfectly healthy, dressed in the finest clothes with silks and jewelry that was clearly unmade by the hands of any elf. Mablung had to squeeze Beleg’s hand and feel his squeeze back to know he wasn’t imagining this. 

Gasping, Celeblas stood up, as did every one of the House of Morwë, and too did the music stop at the sudden appearance of the missing hunters. 

The other dancers parted to make way as Mablung and Beleg rushed to their fathers, utterly astounded. 

“Father!” they cried, just as Morwë and Ivrolach took note of them and laughed merrily. 

“Sons!” they said. “Why do you look so ill!” 

“Why do you mean?” Mablung demanded. “For a fortnight you’ve been gone! We had thought you dead!” 

“Nonsense!” Morwë said. “We are more alive than ever, and we bring the merriest of news! Why has the music and the dancing stopped? Proceed! We must see our good friend Elwë! Oh, what wonderful news!”

*

The rest of the feast was spent at King Elu Thingol’s table as Morwë and Ivrolach retold their tale. 

“We had almost lost the fight against the orcs, when then another group assailed the orcs. Thanks to my youngest son here, Moredhel, for having befriended the Khazad before, they knew of us and recognized me as his father. They saved us from the orcs and then took us to their cave to dwell for a time.”

“All this time while we worried you were dead,” Beleg added, shooting a glance at his father, who nodded proudly. 

“And they do dearly love Moredhel,” Ivrolach said. “They had fashioned a sword for his use, and invitation to visit them for lessons in smith-work by the Khazad.” 

He produced a sword, beautifully crafted, that caught the light of the candles, and offered it to Moredhel, who studied it in his hands, enchanted. Lúthien cocked her head to get a better glance at the sword, intrigue gripping her out of Daeron’s music, while Míriedir eyed his brother with mild envy but said nothing. 

“We only left with regret because our wives had a vision of our whereabouts,” Ivrolach sighed, thinking back to the beautiful mountain he had stayed in with the Khazad, which earn him another glare from his son and Mablung. 

“ _Oh, but at least they are alive_ ,” Beleg whispered to Mablung, and their expressions softened, even laughing at their father’s hearty appetites even in front of the king and queen. 

“That is not all,” Morwë said. “They wish to speak with you personally, my King. They heard of our problem with the orcs and of our cave, and they believe they can help us to…maximize on its potential. They are very eager to work, I should add.” 

Their king and queen exchanged a conversation by looks and thought, before King Elu Thingol nodded to Morwë and Ivrolach. 

“We would be glad to receive them,” he said at last, his smile warm.

*

“What a splendid ending to this story,” Beleg said, giving a warm sigh as he and Mablung made for their apartment. “Missing loved ones return, healthy and well, and there is good tidings and promise of a better future, though the knowledge of having worried needlessly may have upset their relatives a bit.” 

“But in the end, everything is well, as well as it could be,” Mablung said. Beleg lit a few candles along their bedroom, and that was when Mablung noticed the flask of mead Beleg had tucked under his coat. 

“Had to sneak off with something to celebrate with,” Beleg said, winking at Mablung before freeing himself of his clothes. 

“So soon you encourage me back into old bad habits?” 

Beleg offered him the first sip, but Mablung pushed it towards him instead. “I want it to be you first.” 

Shrugging, Beleg took a few swigs before bringing it back to Mablung’s lips, who took one before turning his back. He shrugged off his clothes, taking care to let each piece slide off his shoulders just long enough to entice Beleg, who was sipping from the flask as for want for something to do. 

Mablung joined him, noting a little more than half the flask was gone already, and took his share then, shivering as Beleg’s eager hands roamed his chest and stomach, slipping under his pants, before returning his attention back to Beleg’s lips. 

They found their bed soon enough, the fur tickled their naked bodies and offering some heat against the chill. They swam, in entangled bodies of brown and ivory, grinding slowly at the hips and their kisses leaving both breathless. 

“The best part of this holiday?” Beleg said, laughing lightly, after they broke their kiss. His ivory cheeks were flushed pink from the mix of their passion and the mead, and they glowed as he grinned mischievously, grabbing onto Mablung’s arms. “I believe the neighbors are still in the grand hall. We are all alone tonight.”


End file.
